Castles in the Sky, Castles Made of Sand
by SapphireDragonScales
Summary: A GoT Modern AU, told primarily from the perspective of four of the female characters: Dany, Sansa, Cersei, and Margaery. Takes place in SoCal. Same(ish) power games, different time and place.
1. Sansa 1

**Author's Note: So I'd like to give out an important word about spoilers. So this is an AU, and, since the ASoIaF series isn't finished yet, I couldn't make the journeys of these alternate versions of the characters run parallel to those of the originals in GRRM's world if I wanted. There are many basic plot points I've kept (and given a modern twist). So far, none of the major plot points from any part of the series beyond what we've seen in Season 4 of the television show have been incorporated and modernized here. Eventually, though, I will be adding in plot developments re-imagined from **_**A Feast for Crows **_**and **_**A Dance with Dragons**_***, regardless of whether or not the T.V. show has caught up. Before that happens, I will warn you ahead of time. **

*** And I may end up having to conclude my characters' journeys before I have anything to base it on except my own desires, though that warrants no cautioning. Nay, not even a sigh of regret, as I was always going to have my own endgame for my modernized GoT characters. :P **

**So without further ado, please enjoy **_**Castles in the Sky, Castles Made of Sand.**_** First POV belongs to Sansa. **

_**Sansa**_

Her mother had always praised her for how ladylike she was, how well-mannered. She said Sansa navigated social situations with poise.

But it was nothing, Sansa reflected, compared to the poise that Margaery Tyrell possessed.

Margaery wasn't always polite or well-mannered, but she was still an expert at ingratiating herself with people. Somehow or another, people always seemed to wind up loving Margaery. Her eyes could have a sharp, mocking look to them, but they could just as easily go all soft and sympathetic, so that even the most cynical person would believe that she genuinely cared about their happiness in life. Her mouth had a decided talent for curling sardonically, but it could also form the most winning of smiles. She seemed to know instinctively just what each person she met most wanted to hear, and was as good a listener as she was a talker, and when she got to talking, she could go a mile a minute. She made friends effortlessly and when Sansa had known her at UCLA, she had been a favorite of many of the teachers, too. She was a master flirt, as well, and drew guys to her like flies to honey. None of her relationships ever lasted very long, but she stayed friendly with all her exes. Maybe it was Margaery's experience with guys that gave her such confidence. Sansa had only ever had one real boyfriend, and her only...experience had been with him.

_And it had never been that satisfying_, Sansa remembered, cringing. Of course, nearly every remembrance of Joff brought on a cringe. At the very least. Or tears. Or rage. Or nausea.

Even sashaying around in a pair of sweat pants rolled up past her ankles and a baggy, faded old T-shirt, Marg avoided looking at all dowdy or sloppy and somehow maintained an air of casual sophistication.

"Sansa," Margaery grinned, plopping down in the director's chair that was next to the beanbag chair Sansa was currently lounging in. She leaned forward and grabbed Sansa's hand with the warm urgency that was so characteristic of her. "I'm going to kidnap you. I'm going to bring you to my grandma's house, and keep you there for at least a good, long week, and all we're going to do is hang around in our pajamas, drink chardonnay, and watch trash T.V." Margaery was currently holding a glass of chardonnay, and she swirled it around with a cheerful though careful, flourish, then held it aloft, like she was ready for Sansa to toast to her plans. "What do you think?" She raised one of her always-expressive eyebrows expectantly.

Sansa sipped at her own glass of the wine her friend had brought over. Lowering it, she smiled over the rim at the brunette young woman opposite her.

"Marg..." she began, a hint of chastisement in her voice even as she looked apologetically at her companion. "You know-"

"Don't you dare say no to me!" Margaery cut her off with faux sternness. Her nose crinkled playfully, but in her eyes was a flash of exasperation. "C'mon! I barely get to see you anymore! Why won't you come and stay with me for a while?"

Sansa shook her head in disbelief, still smiling, though it was a bit forced. Margaery Tyrell did things like serve at the soup kitchen and organize charity toy drives, but that didn't mean that at times she wasn't seriously self-centered. Sansa was used to this, but still, she was tired of having arguments, however civil, like the one she knew was brewing.

"Well...because of school, for one...and work for another..." she drawled, voice tinged with sarcasm. "It's just going to make getting to my classes _really, really_ difficult if I'm staying with you at your grandmother's. Even if I had my car...which, you know, I _don't _anymore..." Speaking about her recent transportation difficulties brought on a definite ache. Not physical. Save a pale, jagged scar seven inches long on the back of her leg, she'd fully recovered physically from the accident that had probably been meant to permanently maim her...or worse. She swallowed. No, it was an emotional ache. She _had_ been attached to her car, an eighteenth birthday present from her parents; however, missing that car wasn't what wounded her, either. No. What had caused her trauma was that act, that act of malice by the guy who'd said he loved her, an act of malice greater than even _he _had ever inflicted on her before. Long before the accident, she'd accepted that Joff didn't love her. But she never imagined he hated her as much as all that.

The pang she experienced when talking about the car also had something to do with the people who had given it to her being dead. Whenever she thought about how her good, warm, sensible mother and reliable, kind, reliable father were no longer with her, she got an empty feeling inside of her chest.

Margaery sat as though waiting for something. Margaery, who believed that Joffrey had changed. Was _changing_. Whatever. She'd said she never believed that Joffrey _truly _meant to hurt Sansa, that night he was chasing her in his Escalade. Margaery had been spending a lot of time with Joffrey. They were friends now. And Sansa didn't care, or at least she kept telling herself that she didn't, as long as Marg never, _ever_ brought Joffrey around her.

Margaery drummed her OPI Bubble Bath-painted fingernails against her glass while watching Sansa's face expectantly.

Sansa played dumb, raising her eyebrows like she didn't know what Margaery was after. Like to her, Sansa, the subject was already closed.

"It would be so cool if you went to the party me and my grandmother are having this Sunday. Stay for a long weekend, at least."

Sansa pursed her lips. She hated refusing people. And she especially hated it when she had to summon all her courage to refuse somebody the simplest thing. She should have more courage, she knew- she was like a foolish, tremulous little bird. But she'd always been a people pleaser, and after everything that had happened, in the face of opposition now, it so often felt like whatever little fight she had ever had in her naturally was gone. She muttered only one word.

"Sorry."

"Okay," Marg sighed in exasperation, getting back up and beginning to pace the room. "I've got energy to burn tonight. You know how I have insomnia sometimes, right? You remember that from when we lived together?" She broke into a wide grin as she turned toward her friend. "How we used to go driving at night to kill the boredom and hit up the fast food drive-thru's while listening to bad old pop music?"

When Sansa had lived with Margaery, it had been like living with a whirling dervish. However, Sansa had been much happier back then, and she hadn't much minded, though she'd never been as bold as her life-of-the-party friend. Those were the good old days, all the way around.

"Sure," Sansa replied. "Good times. Of course, I guess we were kind of acting like dorks." She chuckled. "You don't think we're _still_ that dorky, do you?" she joked.

"So you remember how I am? When I just need to get out?" Margaery continued, ignoring her question, a cheerfully needling tone in her voice, her eyes bright with a new scheme. "Let's go dancing! At a club! Will you go to a club with me? Sansa, I know just the one- I went there for the first time a few weeks ago. It's called The Maidenvault-"

"The Maidenvault?" Sansa had to interrupt, but she felt her back stiffen, even as she sat in a beanbag chair. Marg's suggestion provoked an immediate negative reaction in her. She _hated_ clubs, always had, and the thought alone of going out to one tonight had her exhausted already. "Sexy," she kidded weakly.

Marg grinned. "And it's _awesome_," she went on. "Not too uptight or pretentious, you know, but not, like, a dive, either. It's just about people having a great time."

"Sounds great," Sansa lied. "But...I think that'll have to wait to some other time, Marg, I...I'm really too tired for that, I think."

"Seriously? Why are you tired? You didn't even have any classes today, and you didn't work."

Sansa's heart sank. She felt like she'd already given in, and that disappointed her. This new idea of Margaery's wasn't her idea of a good time, and Marg should know that. How many times had Sansa wanted to go clubbing with her even way in the past when everything was good? And on the occasions when she hadn't been able to credibly say that she had a prior engagement or when she'd just been feeling so optimistic that anything, even clubbing, sounded like it could potentially be fun, she'd gone and done a seriously sub-par job of imitating her group's ecstatic antics. That couldn't have gone unnoticed.

As Sansa dithered, Margaery whined, "Come _ooooon_," in a way that should have made her sound about five years old, but somehow didn't.

"Margaery, I don't- I don't know...I wasn't planning on going out tonight. Maybe I don't have any right to feel tired, but I'm just- I'm just feeling kind of," she made a useless, confused kind of gesture, cupped palms raised upward as she waved her arms weakly back and forth before shrugging and then crossing them over her stomach, "low key."

"What if we can get Loras to come out with us?"

_What if you can get Loras to come out_? Sansa almost returned, but she bit her tongue. She didn't understand why Marg would used Loras as bait to get Sansa to go out, though. It almost felt like she was _still_ rubbing that in. So she used to have a _massive_ crush on Marg's older brother. That was a hundred years ago. Sansa scowled and picked at a cuticle. A hundred years ago since, after she'd hinted to Margaery that she'd like to know if Loras was interested in dating her, Marg had laughed at her for not knowing that Loras was gay. Was Margaery still laughing at that old gag? So apparently Loras was only out to a few people, but it was supposed to be so obvious that basically everyone knew, anyway. Sansa didn't think it was _that_ obvious. Loras was always flirting with girls. Besides, he was probably pretty much the best-looking guy on the planet (and a moderately-famous male model), so who could blame her for at least asking?

"Loras is fun," Sansa said lightly, successfully, she thought, disguising her annoyance. "But, really, Marg, I just don't wanna go out, no matter who with."

"But Sansa," Margaery collapsed dramatically at her feet and grabbed her hand, gazing up at her with wide, beseeching amber eyes. "Sansa...I've been wanting a fun night out with you again _for such a long time_! I was so happy when I found out you were moving back here and getting your own place. But these past six months...Sansa, it's like you've just been hiding yourself away in here..."

"I haven't been hiding myself away!" Sansa objected, a trace of real indignation entering her tone. She pulled her hand away from Margaery's and curled her fingers in against her knee. "I'm not a...a _shut-in_, Margaery. I go to school, I go to work, I...I go out and buy groceries, I don't have them delivered-"

Her friend was smiling at her sadly. "You've been through a lot. _So much_. I told you this right after everything happened. I _can't imagine_ what it's been like for you, and how much you've suffered. My heart breaks for you."

Sansa squeezed her eyes shut. She'd heard countless words of sympathy since her parents and Robb had died. She could deal with them fine if they were said in passing. She could deal with them fine if they were said out in public. She'd been taught well never to make an emotional scene in public. But here was Margaery, looking her dead in the eye like this, all deliberateness and compassion, cornering her in her own home. With a great deal of effort, Sansa held back the tears, and opened her eyes.

"I know there's a limit to how much I," Margaery put a hand on her heart earnestly, "can help. But won't you at least let me try? Please don't shut me out, Sansa. I'm your friend, and I love you. Let's not lose the sense of fun in our friendship. Neither one of use deserves that."

And before Sansa knew what she was doing, she was waving the white flag.

"Yeah, okay, Marg, alright, I'll go..."

Margaery interrupted with a happy squeal. She sprang to her feet and patted Sansa on the knee as if to say, 'that's my girl!'  
"Now, if I'm not mistaken, you still have some of my clothes." Margaery shot Sansa a joking look over her shoulder as she sauntered over to Sansa's closet and threw it open without invitation. "Haven't been wearing any of them, have you?"

Sansa bristled slightly. She gave an awkward chuckle, turning her back toward Margaery, ostensibly to collect the glasses and wine bottle and take them to the kitchen, but really so Margaery didn't see her slight grimace. Was Marg mocking her? Treating her like a lame, prudish younger sister again? Someone who would never in a million years wear revealing, hyper body-conscious outfits like Marg and deserved disdain because of that? She stuck the wine in the fridge and the glasses in the sink and told herself that Margaery was only gently poking fun. Margaery respected her...her sartorial choices, surely. She walked back around the bar and into the living room portion of her home, which with the little apartment's open floor plan, provided a full view into the tiny bedroom. She collapsed back into her beanbag chair and watched Marg try to pick out an outfit.

"Ooo, I've missed this one. I've only worn it once." She turned to show Sansa the dress, a bright white, body-hugging knee-length dress with three-quarter length sleeves and a plunging neckline, festooned with a fleur-de-lis pattern on the front in gold embroidery.

"It's very pretty, Margaery," Sansa complimented, trying to work herself up into a going-out spirit. She was coming up short, but at least she sounded chipper. "That's the one you wore to your grandmother's birthday, right?"

"That's right!" Marg exclaimed, dimpling happily at Sansa's good memory. Sansa smiled, too. She knew how much Margaery loved the salty, somewhat frightening woman who was her grandmother, Olenna Tyrell. It was probably one of her best traits.

Margaery ended up selecting that dress, and then gained Sansa's easily given permission to use some of her makeup. After she wandered into the studio apartment's bathroom, Sansa forced herself up out of her chair and pulled the elastics securing the braids on either side of her head free from her hair. She shook her head, out of exasperation as much as to shake her newly-loose red locks around. Why exactly was she going along with this? Well, because Marg was her friend and she wanted her to be happy and get to do things she liked and also because there was only a certain extent to which she could _afford_ to displease Margaery. She didn't exactly have a ton of friends left, not after what happened with her family. The way they were slandered.

_And then led to the slaughter_.

Sansa went to her closet and spent but a few minutes surveying its contents before she made her choice. She only had a few outfits, anymore, that would be suitable for a club. She picked out a tank dress with a gray bodice and a black flared skirt. She'd wear her purple heels for a pop of color, she decided, and changed out of her Mossimo for Target shorts and T-shirt. She also grabbed a necklace- made of three fine, delicate sterling silver strands that looked like wire, twisting around each other with little twinkling amethysts housed between them- and put it on. It was one of the dozen pieces of jewelry Margaery had given her free of charge. Her purse was sitting on the ground by the bar separating the kitchen and living area, and she walked over to retrieve it, taking from the inside a couple of lip products, her compact, and her brush. She carefully passed the brush through her hair, and then tried to fluff it up around the crown, but to no avail. The length of her hair was wavy now, but it was hopelessly flat on top. She sighed, and did her best to resign herself to this look. She applied some Nars The Multiple tint in Orgasm (she remembered how she'd giggled when she'd bought her Orgasm blush at fourteen) to her lips and cheeks, then topped her lips with clear gloss. Walking over to the full-length mirror, she gave herself a once-over and felt her appearance to be wanting. Sansa was "statuesque", that was a word she'd gotten a lot in her life, and pretty, but tonight her hair was flat and she looked even more dumb and diffident than usual.

Margaery came out of the bathroom and feigned a noise of disgust.

"You're, like, so beautiful, Sansa. I'm dying. Every guy at the club will be checking you out."

Sansa rolled her eyes as she smoothed her skirt. As if Margaery would view her as competition of any kind.

Margaery nudged Sansa's purple velvet pump with her own strappy gold stiletto.

"Always purple," she teased her friend.

"Of course," Sansa said simply with a grin. Purple was her favorite color.

**BREAK!**

Despite being an enormous flirt, twenty whole minutes had passed and Marg had been true to her promise, not abandoning Sansa to dance with any of the guys who had asked her (or to go in the back room or outside with any of the guys who had asked her) since they arrived at The Maidenvault. Oh, Sansa had been asked to dance plenty, too, but she'd turned all her would-be partners down. Recently she sometimes felt that, had she not been raised with brothers and had a fantastic father, she would be completely scared of guys now. As it was, she was only weary of them. It was like she'd said to Margaery- she didn't want to be _out there_ tonight, to mingle and be social. She didn't really want the pressure of having to act...like a partier.

Having ruled out dancing and flirting, they by turns danced goofily with each other and just stood bobbing their heads along to the music and sipping their drinks in the middle of the enthusiastic and trendy throng.

Marg probably could have gotten them into the VIP section, but she didn't venture up the small flight of stairs leading to the exclusive upper alcove, sectioned off by a velvet rope and outfitted with thick, plush dark curtains that the VIP's could keep closed or open at will. She rarely went for things like that, preferring instead to be among her adoring public. Okay, so it wasn't even like most people even recognized her, but still, Marg had that air about her: it was like she was "the people's queen" or something. It was nice, Sansa supposed, that Margaery wasn't...what was that word her poli-sci major half-brother was always throwing around?...elitist, but just sometimes, Sansa sort of wished Margaery would take more advantage of the perks she was given, so Sansa could enjoy the spill over.

Tonight, though, jewelry designer extraodinaire Margaery Tyrell _did_ keep sneaking looks up at the second level of the club. Sansa knew that she was trying to be secretive because she ducked her head after every time she did it. Who could be up there? And moreover, how could Margaery even tell who was up there, even though the curtain was currently parted? Under the strobe lights, Sansa's eyes were starting to burn, and she could barely see a foot in front of her face.

She didn't ask Marg who she was looking for, though, because she was too caught up in feeling strangely paranoid- not just cautious like a girl needed to be in a place like this, but like any one of these people might be concealing some hidden weapon, metaphorical bows and arrows to bring down her silly little bird self. She tried her best to hide her bizarre thoughts behind her silly dancing and jerky head bobs and not completely authentic laughter. She kept reminding herself that none of these people gave a damn about her, one way or the other.

That was a terrifying thought, too.

"Sansa, I'll be right back, okay?"

Sansa's head swiveled around so rapidly she was surprised she didn't give herself whiplash. But Margaery moved fast, too. Sansa turned toward her friend just in time to see the back of her vanishing. She was moving quickly, so quickly through the crowd. Sansa opened her mouth to object, and she reached out to grab onto her, but Margaery was gone, disappeared before any words could be uttered or Sansa could so much as graze the brunette's sleeve with a fingertip.

Sansa's jaw clenched and she stomped her foot. Damn it, why the hell would Margaery _do _that? Why would she have to just get away from her like that? She'd promised to stay close, at Sansa's request. Had Margaery not thought she was serious? She felt the pinpricks of anxiety start to occur. Her brain focused on the thumbing bass as the inertia of the club. It was pounding, pounding away far too fast, and it was so commanding that her heart felt compelled to race in order to match its rhythm.

A group of four of five people was headed her way, laughing and talking loudly, all carrying drinks and playfully shoving and grappling at each other as they walked. There was little wiggle room for them to make it around Sansa, and as she, wide-eyed, watched them approach, she thought they might simply barrel into her and flatten her. She lurched backward just in time, and hit somebody else instead of having them hit her. The people behind her seemed to dislike people knocking into them, too, and backed up right away. Unfortunately, they had been kind of holding her up, and as they moved, she stumbled, and nearly fell on her behind, but for her wildly flailing her arms like a windmill and desperately pitching herself forward. She didn't realize that she was strangely winded until it came out of her in a little _whoosh_ when she righted herself. As the group of roughhousers passed her by, holding their drinks aloft, a couple small splashes of something brown and sour landed on her shoe and on the back of her hand, directly atop the weird, seven-pointed star she'd gotten stamped on her hand when she entered.

She seemed to be the only person standing alone and realized suddenly that she couldn't stay put; she would have to move. This was somewhat easier said than done as her legs were currently shaking, but she had to look for Margaery, or at least find a wall so she could stay mostly out of harm's reach and grope her way around the perimeter of the room to find an exit. She had never felt so claustrophobic in her life. She had a knot in her stomach the size of this great state of California.

She started walking and nearly collided with two people basically humping on the dance floor, the woman with a leg on either side of one of the gyrating man's slightly spread and bent legs. Her back arched dramatically, her hips jerked forward. She was wearing a triangle bikini top under a blazer and...and she actually had her nipple out of one of those triangles right now. And it was in the mouth of her male companion. Sansa hadn't lived a completely sheltered existence. She'd gone to college- twice. Yet she couldn't help but feel scandalized at the display in front of her, and despite herself, found her feet glued to the floor for just a few seconds too long, her mouth slightly agape. The woman must have felt a stare on the point of suction, for she turned her head in Sansa's direction. This was Sansa's cue to take off, but she could hear bikini top chick call out after her,

"Take a picture, it'll last longer!" And then Sansa couldn't tell if the woman yelled, "_P_rude bitch!" or "Rude bitch!"

Her only option was to keep moving, just keep on moving or get trampled, so that was what she did.

All of a sudden, she heard her friend's high, full laughter, and she quickened her pace forward. She spotted who she was looking for, clamping a hand onto that young woman's shoulder.

"Marg!" she exclaimed, and Margaery turned, the color high her cheeks, a wide smile of amusement upon her face. She had clearly been in the midst of a very entertaining conversation, though, as Sansa happened to look quickly past her, she saw no one facing in their direction.

"Sansa, heeeey!" Margaery sang out cheerfully, seizing her forearm and pulling her closer. "Sansa, say hi to-"

Sansa's words were already charging past Margaery's though, such was Sansa's agitation.

"Margaery, what the hell?! You said you wouldn't do that...I was getting lost in here..." To her mortification, she could feel tears starting to well up. She held them back, and changed the subject, as it belatedly registered that Marg had been beginning to introduce her to someone.

"Wha- who...who did you want me to meet?" she babbled sheepishly.

Margaery stepped to the side, moving the hand that was latched onto Sansa's arm and putting it around her shoulders. Sansa looked at Margaery's face and saw that Margaery was looking down...

At a little person. A man, whose age was hard to judge. Sansa took in the poorly-balanced face; the bulbous, sloping forehead over two mismatched, overly keen eyes; the crooked nose; the golden hair that curled thickly around it like a little lion's mane. She had a sneaking suspicion she knew who this person was. Well, she couldn't recall the name, but Joff...he was related to Joffrey...

"It's Joff's uncle, Sansa."

"Well, there goes making a positive first impression," said the little man dryly, a smile tugging at the corner of one lip.

"Tyrion," Sansa blurted out the name as it came to mind, then blushed. She had never met Tyrion Lannister before, but she'd heard of him, from many sources.

"Tyrion," agreed Margaery, grinning back and forth between the two of them.

He waddled closer to Sansa and held out a stunted arm. Sansa shook the pudgy little hand a the end of it. His eyes were studying her face.

"A pleasure, Miss Stark." His voice was low and solemnly, overly sincere, and it made her uncomfortable. (As, indeed, did everything about him, but she was trying hard to pretend that wasn't true, embarrassed of her ungracious feelings.) She was afraid he was mocking her, somehow. He had such a reputation for being irreverent, and the way he had switched gears so fast- laughing and probably being the consummate witty partygoer only a minute ago- seemed to confirm the general idea people seemed to have of him always being ready to size others up...with sardonic results.

"An _overdue_ pleasure," he went on, releasing her hand with the briefest of squeezes. "I always assumed I would meet you before now, and then I thought I might not meet you at all." He looked back over to Marg. "But maybe that was a foolish thought, since it's well known that you run around with this one, here." He gave a playful tug to the skirt of Margaery's dress, smirking up at her. She gave a little squeal and batted his hand away.

"Oh, stop that, you!"

"Well, i-it's nice to meet you at last," offered Sansa awkwardly, trying to smile. Oh, how she wanted to leave. The knot in her stomach pulled tighter. She hugged herself around her middle, as though that would make the sensation go away, while she drummed her fingers against her hips in time to the music, trying to pass off the gesture as a casual one. She started looking all around her, which she hoped came off as her wanting to drink in the atmosphere because she being really into being there and not just her eyes anxiously darting around because it felt inadvisable to let them rest on anything. She didn't want to attract anyone's attention. Probably least of all, any more from the man standing across from her. And she got sick of always looking to Margaery for approval, always looking at her to take the lead.

"That's kind of you to say," said Tyrion in an even voice after a long pause, calling her attention back to him. She couldn't think of a thing to say back, so she simply smiled tersely.

"Your lovely girlfriend isn't here tonight?" Margaery asked convivially.

Tyrion hesitated.

"I wasn't aware you knew Shae," the man said in a light, lilting tone, though he drew out the sentence as if requesting an explanation.

"Oh," Marg shrugged nonchalantly. "No, I don't, really." She smiled at him. "More like know _of_ her. I'd really like to meet her someday."

Sansa remained silent. She had no idea who this Shae was, besides Tyrion Lannister's girlfriend, apparently. This was the first she'd heard of her. Of course, Margaery had an extremely active social life, and she didn't know everyone Marg knew, or wanted to know.

"She preferred a quiet night at home tonight. I needed to go let off some steam, though," Tyrion disclosed in a languid sort of voice. He was looking all around himself, taking in his surroundings with a much more blase attitude than Sansa could have had, although there might have been something oddly like disapproval in Tyrion's eyes, too. "It's been a rough week at the office."

"I'm sorry to hear that," declared Margaery. She began to sway her hips to the music, though not precisely in time to it, because the manic beat of the song currently playing defied any human hips to keep pace with it. She grinned over at Sansa and gave her a side hug, then kept her arm encircling her waist, playfully bumping hips with her. Sansa, for her part, stood still. "I would have thought you'd at least have your girl to keep you company. I hear she's quite into the nightlife scene."

Tyrion's head slowly rotated back around until he was looking at Margaery again, and there was a chilly wariness in his gaze.

"Now where would you have heard that? I must say, it gets awfully tedious to keep running into implicative remarks from uninformed people who mistakenly believe they know anything about my girlfriend at all."

Margaery unwound her arm from about Sansa's waist and stopped the rhythm-less shaking of her hips. She had a look of concern on her face.

"I'm...sorry, did I say something wrong? I've never heard anyone say anything...insulting about Shae, and I definitely wouldn't attempt to insult her myself."

Tyrion considered the contrite, sweet-faced brunette and continued to look stubborn for a few more moments, and after that, his mouth split into an unreadable smile and he was apparently appeased. Sansa looked to her friend for answers.

But Margaery was looking down quizzically at the wristlet bag she was holding against her thigh. When Sansa strained her ears, she thought she could discern the faintest of buzzing sound. Margaery held up a finger and looked into middle space as she pursed her lips. She placed a hand over her little clutch and said to both her companions,

"H-hang on a second. I need...I need to check something out."

She smiled at them and then promptly ducked through an opening in the crowd, weaving her way through the myriad of bumping, grinding, and drinking people as Sansa's eyes managed, through sheer force of determination, to keep track of her. She seemed to be heading for the wall closest to them, which people were actually giving a bit of a berth, all things considered. Sansa couldn't say she was too happy with Marg leaving her again, and leaving her alone with a Lannister, to boot. However, some of her anxiety had actually abated. She disliked Tyrion on principal, but for some reason, his mere presence wasn't making her feel quite as victimized as she would have expected. Maybe she'd gotten further past her fear than she knew.

"Where's she going now?" Sansa wondered aloud, her eyes tracing Margaery's progress to the wall. She stared at the rose on the brunette's bag and let out an unladylike snort of laughter. _Who would have ever thought that Margaery Tyrell would be a wallflower? _Her own private joke was a little lame, but she didn't care. She watched Marg hurriedly take her phone out of her purse, poke at the screen, stare at it for a minute while worrying her lip, then tap something quickly into the screen. She then slipped the phone back into her bag and started back toward them.

Something wasn't right. Suddenly Margaery was walking a bit like Bambi, even though Sansa hadn't seen her drink very much that night. She'd had half a glass of chardonnay back at Sansa's apartment, and then had taken a few sips of some kind of thick, pink, tropical mystery drink she'd bought here at The Maidenvault.

Still, when she had rejoined Sansa and Tyrion, Margaery insisted, "I think I need to go home." She pulled a sad face, as though she were disappointing one or both of them. "Suddenly I just feel _waaay_ overheated." She wiped the back of her hand over forehead and slouched. "And I'm, ya know, a little drunk," she finished, giggling.

Sansa furrowed her brow in confusion. _What? Drunk? Since when? _Quite involuntarily, she looked at Tyrion, and from the skeptical look on his face, she knew he was thinking exactly the same thing. Still, the little man seemed to think that he'd been called upon to do something chivalrous. He gave an ornate bow, flourishing his arm out before him.

"Allow me to escort you ladies outside."

This was quite unnecessary; neither of them was helpless. Even if Margaery _was _in fact overheated and drunk, she was standing under her own power, and in the past when she could barely do that, Sansa had still managed to lead her out of clubs. Was he thinking for some reason that they needed him to wait with them for safety? Margaery's limo would be around in a minute, and besides...She swept her gaze over his unimpressive stature and thought about how unlikely it was to make a girl feel protected.

They filed through the crowds and to the main entrance, Tyrion out in front and Margaery right behind him, holding onto Sansa's hand as she brought up the rear so they didn't get separated. As they walked, occasionally having to jostle their way past the crush of revelers (Sansa squashing down the irrational but strong instinct to apologize to every one of them even though they wouldn't hear her or likely care), Marg spoke loudly to Tyrion, saying,

"I'm surprised you took on the role of leading us out of here. You don't have the best view to act as a guide."

Sansa gasped, and was thankful that the sound was barely audible even to her. Marg's comment made her uneasy; it seemed like it should be offensive, although she couldn't put her finger on why.

To her further astonishment, Tyrion only laughed. Heartily.

"But I'm sure it _won't_ surprise you to learn that I know this place like the back of may hand, as I've been here many, _many_ times."

Margaery giggled, and so, out of nervousness, did Sansa.

Outside, there was still a line of people waiting to get in, and from the pool of light cast by the neon sign blazing the name of the club from above the door, Sansa read the time on her Citizen watch. It was a quarter to one.

Margaery went over by the curb and whipped out her cell to tell her driver they were ready, and Tyrion turned to Sansa.

"Your friend seems..." He struggled. "Well, she seems.." He cast his eyes upward, as if perhaps trying in vain to read his own forehead, as though the answer to what he thought of Margaery Tyrell was was written there. "I know...she cares about those less fortunate. And she seems to care about you a great deal, too." He smiled at her...kindly, Sansa supposed, but it was such an ugly grin. Why didn't a man as rich as Tyrion Lannister get veneers?

Not to mention, just being near a Lannister again was making her skin crawl. It was like she'd literally become allergic to them.

Nonetheless, Tyrion's words prompted a candid response from Sansa, uttered quite automatically and without intention.

_Those less fortunate...and you._

"Is there a difference?" she asked with a snort. And then her mouth promptly fell open in a little 'O' of surprise as she instantly regretted her words. What was she doing, fishing for pity? And from a _Lannister_? What if he told that to Joffrey, or Cersei? She had no desire to make them happy or to show herself to be weak. Well, even weaker than they already thought she was, anyway.

"I don't know..." said Tyrion, watching her carefully. Too carefully. Sansa shifted on the balls of her feet uncomfortably.

At just that moment, Margaery reappeared, flinging her arm around Sansa's shoulder and leaning against it as if perhaps she did need the support. "The car's being brought around," she said too loudly into Sansa's ear, her weight just a little too heavy against her shoulder, before she attempted to straighten up, wobbling on her heels a bit before entirely managing the task. She toddled back over to the curb and stood there, craning her neck for the sight of the limo.

Sansa literally twiddled her thumbs while she stood next to Joffrey's uncle and awkwardly waited for her ride to drive around the corner. She wanted to go stand beside Marg, but there Tyrion was, right next to her, behaving like he was yet a part of this- whatever _this _was- and Sansa was, despite the number of times she'd told herself she wasn't going to be a little girl anymore, incapable of offending anyone. She couldn't think of a way to excuse herself without being rude. And so, just like inside the club, she stared all around, letting her gaze flit from one thing to the next. When she happened to glance over at Tyrion, she found him gazing out into the night, looking contemplative, his hands resting on his hips and twitching.

The car pulled up, and Margaery signaled to the driver that he could stay in the car, and she opened the door for herself. Just as Sansa was about to walk forward, Tyrion cleared his throat, and she looked down at him. He was fixing her with an earnest, searching look, and he spoke in a voice so low that she had to bend down to hear him.

"She's far too good for Joffrey. Just like you were. She seems like a smart girl, but you'll tell her to be careful, won't you? You'll look out for her?"

"I...I..." Sansa stuttered, taken aback, and with not much time to come up with a response, as Margaery darted back with an outstretched hand, wrapping it around Sansa's wrist and tugging. "I hope I always do my best for my friends," she found herself saying. Marg threw her a curious look over her shoulder.

Tyrion gave her stiff nod as if that was quite good enough for him.

"Good," he said. He walked behind them to the limo, then after first Margaery, then Sansa, had climbed in, patted the open car door and lifted his hand to his forehead in a salute. "Enjoy the rest of your night, ladies. I'm going back in. I'm not nearly drunk enough yet." He closed the door and Sansa watched as he waddled back toward the entrance to the club.

Marg snagged a bottle of seltzer from the limo's fridge and then fell back into her corner with a tired, yet happy enough sounding sigh.

"What was that about?" The brunette asked, rolling her head against the back of the seat until she was facing Sansa. A curly tendril of her chestnut hair was stuck to her chin, near her mouth, and she reached up and flicked it away impatiently.

Sansa slowly shook her head, not sure of that herself.

"Nothing," she answered as Margaery took the seltzer bottle and put it down her dress, within her cleavage. "He just told me to take care."

"I heard something about your friends," Margaery insisted, starting to fan herself even as the air kicked on and Sansa felt goose pimples prickle her arms. For some reason Margaery was really sticking to this story about being overheated when she _must _know that Sansa had seen right through that one. Like, she couldn't really think Sansa was that stupid. ...Could she?

"I..." Sansa hesitated but briefly, it taking only a moment to think of a believable little falsehood. That was one of 'ladylike' skills she'd mastered, after all: telling a palatable lie. "He said to look after you and Joffrey." For added credibility, she gave her hair a haughty flip. "He said he could tell I was more responsible than the two of you put together." She shot her friend a teasing smile.

Margaery looked at her for several long moments, her eyes squinted doubtfully. Then she giggled and flopped back in her seat once more. She took the seltzer out from between her boobs and sat it in a cup holder, then tilted her head back and closed her eyes. The car started to move.

"Where to, ladies?" asked the driver, rolling the partition down.

There was a pause. Sansa laid her head back and closed her eyes, too. She'd had nothing to do all day, and she'd liked it that way. But it had made her tired, the way staying in one place all day and being kind of numb can make a person tired. And then Margaery had turned up and dragged her out here, and the simultaneous stress _and_ boredom of that had left her further drained.

She was so tired that when Margaery gave their destination as Olenna Tyrell's house in Pasadena, Sansa gave no objection.

_To be continued..._


	2. Dany 1

_**Dany**_

She ought to put on sunscreen.

She was being careless, but she wanted to get tan. She was used to getting spray-on tans, but somehow, since moving here, it hadn't crossed her mind to make an appointment. It had been more than a month since her last appointment in Nevada. There was the same preference for tan here in California, too, maybe more so. Dany looked down at one of her bare arms, where it rested on the railing of the balcony. She stroked up and down the limb from her elbow to her shoulder with the back of her fingers, and gave a little shiver despite the heat of the day. Well, "heat" as they all said. The weather report said that it was 102 degrees, taking into account the humidity, but Dany didn't feel overly warm. She gazed down over the railing into the pool which gutted the ground maybe thirty feet below her, and saw the tiniest of bikini-clad Danys reflected in crystalline waters. She sighed and stretched her arms overhead, bored. She really should go in for that sunscreen.

She turned and walked over to the French doors beyond which lay her room. Just as soon as her feet touched the plush, sandstone-colored carpet, she saw Irri coming through the door at the opposite end of the spacious room, directly across from her. The other young woman smiled at Dany respectfully, arms around a stack of fresh towels for Dany's private bathroom.

"Hi, Khaleesi." Irri greeted her, continuing on her way to the entrance to the master bath. "Are you all done sunbathing?"

Dany padded over to follow her assistant into the bathroom. "I forgot the sunscreen."

Irri gave a gently chastising smile over her shoulder. "You must not forget the sunscreen. It is known. You will burn, or maybe get skin cancer."

Dany couldn't help but giggle. "I'm getting sunscreen to prevent the skin cancer part. But you don't need to worry about me burning. I never burn." She leaned against the pink marble, pedestal sink and met Irri's dubious gaze with a look of fond exasperation as she belatedly realized something.

"Irri, what are you doing with those towels?" she queried as that young woman opened the door to the large wicker linen cabinet, about to lay the towels inside. There were many of them, however; so many that she struggled to move them without the whole pile toppling, and Dany put forth a hand and steadied the stack. "Why are you putting them in here?"

Irri looked quizzical. "Where else should your towels go, Khaleesi?"

Dany laughed. "Well, in here! But what I mean is, why are _you_ moving them? I know I left them downstairs in the shopping bags for too long, but that doesn't mean I want _you_ to put them away! That's my responsibility. This does not fall underneath your job description." She took the towels from Irri and almost dropped them in the process, but swiftly crouched down slightly and bent her knees to hold them up as her arms clasped harder around the fluffy, teetering stack. Once she was sure she had them, she looked back up to Irri with a victorious gleam in her eye.

"Aha! See, I can handle it! The Khaleesi can handle anything."

Irri smiled back.

"So I can see."

Dany put the towels away with minimal struggle to get them up onto their shelf and shut the door to the cabinet. It was then that she and Irri were joined by Dany's other assistant, Jhiqui.

"Khaleesi," she said. "You have a visitor."

Daenerys raised her brows. She thought she knew who it probably was, since she knew only one person in the whole state.

"Is it Mr. Selmy?"

"Yes, it is."

Dany nodded. "Okay. Please tell him that I will be with him shortly." She gestured at the swimsuit she was wearing. "I'm just going to change my clothes."

Jhiqui departed to pass on the message, and Irri likewise walked out through the bedroom and disappeared somewhere down the hallway as Dany sought her wardrobe for something more presentable to throw on.

After she was dressed, she went down the spiral staircase and peered across the entrance hall. There was a man waiting at the far end, on the bench by the door.

"Mr. Selmy!" she exclaimed, and strode forward to meet him. "What brings you here?"

Barristan Selmy was her uncle. Well, technically, he had been her cousin's second cousin, so her third. Still, as he was in his mid sixties, it seemed more suitable to consider him her uncle, which was an arrangement Mr. Selmy himself had suggested. This would also be an easy thing to do, Dany imagined, since he seemed determined to exert a protective role toward her. To him she owed a great deal, as it was he, a lawyer, who had managed the settling of her parents' estate on her, and who had helped her move back to California a couple weeks ago.

"I was just wondering how you've been," said Mr. Selmy, in that stately yet friendly way he had, his eyes twinkling at her warmly. "We haven't spoken for a few days. I know, of course, that you've probably been busy, but since I was going into L.A., I thought perhaps I'd stop by and see if you wanted to go there for anything. I know your transportation is a little uncertain right now, and I thought you might like some company, too."

"Your company? Always." Dany thought about his offer. "Well, I've been meaning to go out and buy a new wardrobe." She laughed and shrugged. "Well, almost. I didn't bring many clothes at all with me from Henderson, and I'm going to need a ton of new stuff if I'm going to make the scene here properly."

"That's fine," said Mr. Selmy graciously. "I would be happy to take you around to buy a few things."

Daenerys was amused by this.

"You always look very dapper, sir, but I wouldn't think that _this _kind of shopping that would appeal to you. We might go to a store where you'd be able to find another fine tie for your collection, but is there going to be enough to hold your interest while I'm trying on outfit after outfit?"

Mr. Selmy's expression now looked a tad doubtful, but then he shrugged and gave a grudging smile, sticking his hands in his pockets and shifting on the balls of his feet, "Well, maybe I'd rather you didn't keep me at it all day, Miss, but I'm perfectly willing to stop by one or two places and sacrifice a few hours of my day, and that should be enough time for you to find a few good things, shouldn't it? Won't that help?"

"It still might not be the most fun day for you," she warned, grinning, even as she began to look forward to this outing that he'd proposed.

"Nonsense. I'm glad to do it."

Dany allowed the full strength of her smile to show through and admitted that she thought his plan sounded like a very good one.

"Then I am your servant," said Mr. Selmy gallantly.

**BREAK!**

Dany stared at her reflection in a full-length floor mirror and smiled at herself. Here she was- this slight, pale woman in cut-off shorts, a flowy peach-colored tank top, and black, studded gladiator sandals, her silvery blond hair hanging loose, two small braids worked into it on either side of her face. She was about five-foot-two, and delicate boned. Not exactly an imposing sight at all. But there was a look of confidence and excitement in her large violet eyes.

Here she was, about to set the town ablaze.

Out of consideration for the kind man she had escorting her on her shopping expedition, she'd decided to keep it to the one store, and so far she'd been there for just under an hour and intended to leave soon. It just so happened that this store had lots of stuff that she liked, and it had been quick work to pick out many different outfits.

A pair of jeans caught her eye, and she checked the rack, but didn't see her size, so she called over one of the sales clerks and asked her to please go check the back room.

While she waited for the associate to come back, her eye was drawn to a young woman who had just entered the shop. Hers was not the only one, either. Several patrons turned to look as a pretty brunette about Dany's own age entered the store, her dainty little high-heel, golden-strapped sandals clacking against the tile at the front of the establishment. Dany glanced over at Mr. Selmy and saw that he was watching the girl, too, although he quickly turned to face Dany.

"Margaery Tyrell," he explained, in unimpressed, if amused tones. "She's becoming a bit of...oh, I guess they call them...'It Girls' or something."

Dany laughed outright. It sounded so bizarre to hear a man like her cousin/uncle say that term. After her moment of mirth was over, however, she cocked her head to the side and tried to inconspicuously study this girl, as her import started to dwell on her.

"The jewelry designer," she recalled, quirking a smile up at Mr. Selmy. "Isn't she? And isn't her father head of some big production company?"

"That would be the one," Mr. Selmy replied with a nod, as Dany ducked her head away when the Tyrell girl turned her head in her direction. She felt a little foolish, as though perhaps she should have been bold enough to let this Margaery Tyrell catch her looking at her. Daenerys Targaryen could look at anyone she wanted. If she happened to glance in someone's direction, they should take it as a compliment, and not at all mistake it for the dragon's daughter making the social faux pas of rudely gawking at a stranger. So she turned back around and looked at her again.

As she caught and held Margaery Tyrell's gaze, the brunette slowly began to smile, and took a step forward. Dany looked away, over toward her companion, her cousin-uncle, and gave a tight-lipped smile of resignation. Mr. Selmy shrugged his shoulders. Soon, the pretty young jewelry-designing 'It Girl' was before her, and Daenerys tried to put herself on her game.

"I'm sorry, I just had to come over and say hello," said Margaery Tyrell with a megawatt smile. "You're the infamous Daenerys Targaryen, aren't you?" She didn't trip over Dany's unusual name like many people did.

"Infamous?" Dany laughed. She looked over her shoulder uncertainly at Mr. Selmy. That word very nearly got her hackles up. She'd known going into this that her arrival in Southern California would start a lot of people talking. She was even counting on it. However, she'd much rather be famous than infamous.

"Of course," replied Margaery breezily. She clasped her hands in front of herself, and rocked back and forth on her heels. "Don't worry, though," she said, quirking a smile at Dany and batting her hand. "You're no one until you're talked about." And she laughed in a way that suggested she wanted Dany to join in.

Dany obliged, although really, she merely chuckled, and then felt her features settle into, if not stern lines, than at least quite serious ones.

"I was _born_ somebody."

Margaery's taken aback expression was on her face for the space of one second, but Dany saw it, right before she saw this rather buoyant-seeing young woman crack another big grin. "Yes, you definitely were."

Her voice became softer, reverent, as she stepped in closer and said, "Your parents and your brother Rhaegar were absolute _legends_. They've always been such role models for me. I must have read Rhaegar's book twenty times. And not only were they outstanding business leaders: I have it on good authority from so many members of my family that they were just _outstanding _people, too."

Despite everything, Dany decided that she kind of liked this Margaery Tyrell. The girl was a portrait of contradictions. She was a sycophant without losing any pride, and a speaker of words that could make her seem like a pawn, but with something in her demeanor which said she was totally a player at heart.

A notion appeared to seize the girl; Dany could practically see the light bulb going on in her head.

"I just had the best idea!" Margaery Tyrell announced excitedly. "Daenerys...I'm, well, my grandmother, Olenna Tyrell, and I are having a party tomorrow evening. Nothing major- it's cocktail attire, in the garden, but good company always goes along way, and there's always good company. It would be even better if- well, I know it's really short notice, and you probably already have plans, but we'd be _thrilled _if you'd come!"

_Oh, this is a huge get for you, isn't it_, thought Dany as she looked at Margaery _If I were to make my debut at __**your **__party, oh, just imagine how the talk would swirl around an event of yours like it never has before._

Of course, there was something in it for Daenerys, too. She had to make an appearance at some sort of event attended by influential people eventually, anyway, and she'd already decided it was better to do so sooner than later. It would probably look more confident to go to a relatively noteworthy event at this point, two weeks into her residency in the Los Angeles Metro Area, than to seem as if she were holing up in her mansion, screwing up her courage.

The sales attendant came back with the distressed Diesel skinny jeans she'd asked for. Dany took them from her and gave her thanks, while Margaery stood there, clearly waiting on pins and needles for a verdict. Dany examined the jeans, smiling not just because she was pleased with the style, but because she was pleased with the turn of events, and enjoying drawing out the other young woman's suspense.

"I'd _love _to go to your party, Margaery!" she finally announced effusively, laying a friendly hand on the girl's forearm and watching the gleam of triumph appear in her eyes.

"Oh, _good_! I'm so glad!" Margaery placed her hand over Dany's, and the two shared a laugh over nothing. She reached into her purse, extracted her wallet, and from it, a business card. She passed it to Dany. "Call the number on this card and someone will set you up with the address and time."

As Margaery headed off to another part of the store, Mr. Selmy came close and said,

"I think it's only fair to tell you that she's rumored to be going out with a Baratheon."

**BREAK!**

Daenerys sat at her vanity in her bedroom, only her butt on the red leather padded stool. Her thighs weren't going to touch it at all, covered as they were in self tanner that she was waiting to dry. She wrinkled her nose slightly at the scent of the concoction. It had that scent that a lot of the popular drugstore sunscreens had, that of chemical-y coconuts, and also a hint of a smell akin to burning rubber. She hoped it would at least create a good-looking tan. The woman at Ulta- which she'd stopped by after Fabriosa's Boutique with Mr. Selmy's blessing- had said that she swore by it.

As Dany sat immobile, she made sure her mind wasn't similarly idle. She kept thinking about how she was going to forge her career here. She knew that she could do it, and yet, she wished she didn't feel like she was quite so alone in embarking upon this adventure. Irri and Jhiqui were great, lovely women who were invaluable help to her and who she looked at as friends, as well. However, she'd been thinking for a while now that she really did need an assistant with more business experience. An executive assistant, someone who could help her as she got her store up and running, and then after, during her quest to re-take Iron Throne Media. Someone prudent, but with an imagination, who she could trust utterly. Someone who would believe in and appreciate her vision and have a talent for managing the more mundane tasks of her daily business life.

She let out a large yawn. Finally, after a few test dabs at her legs with her fingertips confirmed they were dry, Daenerys pattered toward her bed and drew back the duvet and sheets. The hour was late, and she was rather tired. It wasn't long before she was fast asleep.

She was standing in a field of high grass. It was taller than her; there was no seeing over it. It stretched on seemingly endlessly in front of her, and she had the strange feeling the world was drowning in it. It was all brown and yellow, which made it look like it was dying, and yet, it seemed like a very fearsome, threatening thing that would only grow stronger and overpower all. She walked forward, having no real object in mind, only that she wanted to find out if there was anything besides this sea of grass to be seen.

There was. Soon she came to a small clearing. There was a man standing in it, no more than ten feet in front of her. Just standing there as if he were waiting for her.

It was someone she knew well. She mouthed his name in elated disbelief.

She went to him; so quickly she didn't even remember moving. One minute she was standing a dozen feet away from him, and the next she was in his arms. She buried her face against his sturdy, chiseled chest while he stroked her silver hair. There was an odd stillness in the air, but Daenerys pushed that thought aside. Nothing else could matter, now that Drogo had been returned to her.

He released her from their embrace, causing a feeling of disappointment to wash over her. He stood back from her, but took her hand and held it tight. Drogo had never been much for smiling, but one formed on his face now, and it wasn't a joyous smile. Nor was it the malicious smile she'd occasionally seen on his face before when squaring off against an enemy. It was so peculiar. It was a sad smile, and so clearly affectionate. He loved her, she knew that, but he had never looked at her with such thoughtful tenderness before. She had certainly never seen him looking like he was on the brink of tears. What was he so sad about? They were together now; together once more.

Suddenly she heard some kind of squawking noise, and she started looking all around her. She didn't see anything that could possibly be making the noise, but she knew what she _expected _to see. For some reason, her mind conjured up dragons. But all she could see were those perfectly undisturbed, still plains of brown and yellow grass that seemed to stretch on into infinitity. Up in the milky gray sky, nothing was flying around. When she looked back to where Drogo had been standing across from her, he was no longer there, and she felt panic and grief rise in her chest. How could she have failed to notice he was no longer holding her hand? In incredulity, she stretched both arms out in front of her and felt around the space where he had been. She called out for him. The only answer she received was more squawking from that mysterious invisible source. She was not afraid of the noise, but it made her anxious. And she was afraid that she'd lost Drogo all over again, after having only just rejoined him. "My sun and stars!" she cried out to him. Then she whispered it: "My sun and stars!" And then she finally seemed to hear a voice answer her. Her own words, her own voice, but fainter and raspier, echoing back from the grass, which was beginning to sway from a sudden wind. "My sun and-" she said, as the wind continued to whistle through the grass. She broke off, and then said only, "My son," as she was stirred by the memory of a wise woman telling her that she would have a son. But she wouldn't. Not that son, nor any other. Not any children at all, not of her own body. The squawking sound was growing louder. Everything would be okay if she could find what was making that noise. She suddenly knew that as firmly as she'd ever known anything. She only needed to find the dragons. "My sons!" She shouted. "My sons!" She was turning in circles, looking up at the sky, looking all over for them. The grass responded. "_Mother!" _it hissed. "_Mother! Mother of dragons!_" "Where are you?' Dany called out. "Where _are_ you?" She was still spinning, and beginning to feel unwell. She was beginning to lose her grip on reality. She was beginning to think there were no dragons.

_No dragons. They cannot be making this noise._

What else squawked? Birds.

Birds. Outside her window.

"_Drogo..._" she whispered into her tousled sheets. She felt tears paint her cheeks as she woke.

**BREAK!**

"A red dress?" Jhiqui asked, smiling.

Dany ordinarily wore mostly pastels, but tonight, for this party, she'd selected a crimson halter dress. It fell to just above her knees, and hugged her figure without being absolutely skintight, though, with the help of her strapless push-up bra, it did reveal a good bit of cleavage. Speaking of her neckline, it had some black lace detailing around it, and also some more down the center of the dress to her waist, laid over the satin of the dress. It was one of the dresses she'd bought on a whim, while in her brief shopping frenzy at Fabriosa's in downtown L.A. But now that she had it on again, and really took the time to look at herself in the mirror in her new/old bedroom, she realized it was one of her favorite things she'd ever owned. She smoothed her hands down over her skirt and smiled at her reflection.

"Yes," she answered Jhiqui. "Red is my favorite color. You know that. It's why I had this house trimmed in red before we got here, remember?" She grinned broader. "Do you like the dress, Jhiqui? Oh, I think it's fantastic. And very red. The color of fire...and blood..."

"Fire and blood?" asked Jhiqui, eyebrows rising gently.

Dany blushed a little and out of nowhere felt a little flustered. She didn't know why. She had few secrets from her assistants; they knew exactly what she was like, and were used to her spouting off cryptic thoughts in the form of random brainwaves.

Jhiqui let it go at that, but after Dany mulled it for a few seconds, she knew the reason behind her own brief moment of discomfort.

Because then, just then, it was like a feeling of premonition had come over her.

"Oh, I don't know. It's just an intense color, is all." She looked back at her assistant, and broke out in a big smile again. "I feel like I could conquer the world in this dress."

**BREAK!**

As the limousine pulled up on the street where the Tyrell domicile was located, however, she felt somewhat less confident. She fidgeted in her seat, brushing her hands over the skirt of her dress over and over again, smoothing it unnecessarily. She felt more socially awkward than she had in some time. It was ridiculous in someone her age, of her parentage, and in someone who had faced many ordeals infinitely more trying than a cocktail party in a garden. However, the fact remained that she hadn't been to a real party in some time. The last group of people she'd been hanging around with had been Drogo's crowd, which kept her busy with gatherings rather unlike this. In a very real way, that lifestyle had kept her pretty isolated. Her brother had been right in a sense- not matter how Viserys had erred in his perception about so much else. Her recent experiences had left her ill-prepared for any different kind of society.

She stared at the gooseflesh breaking out on her legs and sighed. All during the drive, she had wanted to tell the driver to turn down the air conditioning, but her throat seemed to have a bit of a lump in it.

Apparently, Margaery Tyrell lived with her grandmother. A bit of an unusual situation, for an independently wealthy young woman of twenty-four, unless the favored grandmother was infirm. But from everything Dany had heard, Olenna Tyrell was quite the opposite.

The house, a two-story white structure trimmed in green located in Pasadena, was not as large as she'd expected, but very pretty. The driver of the car Selmy had ordered for her was opening her door and handing her out of the vehicle. She thanked him, then he thanked her and soon enough she was standing alone, looking up the driveway at the people visible milling around behind the gate at the side of the house. As far as she could tell, it was a pretty good turn out. Other people arriving at the same time as her were starting to stride up the drive toward the gate. As she followed their course, she heard music coming from the back of the house.

On the side of the residence and wrapping around to the back was a beautiful garden, full of all kinds of lush greenery and exquisite flowers- with roses of all colors predominating- flowing alongside a lawn that was bigger than the house. As she moved around to the back of the place, she encountered a security guard who checked for her name on a list before letting her pass.

Dany looked down at her legs as she walked and thought that although she wasn't as tan as she would've liked, they looked pretty damn good. Though it had turned into a perfect Sunday featuring perfect weather, earlier that day a rare, heavy and energetic rain had fallen, and the grass was still somewhat wet and she was in three inch heels, so she was careful not to slip.

"Mr. Selmy!" she exclaimed, and trotted as quickly as she could across the damp lawn toward where Barristan Selmy stood on a part of a weaving concrete path. She breathed a tiny sigh of relief once her feet were safely on this concrete, and offered up a big smile of relief when she was beside one of the only two people she knew at this party. "Hello."

His eyes crinkled as he smiled back at her and extended his hand. "Good evening, Miss Targaryen." When she slipped her hand into his, he brought it to his lips and kissed it gallantly.

"Daenerys, please," she entreated, feeling like it was about time. After yesterday, the instant liking she'd taken to him when they'd met had only strengthened. He truly was an adorable old man, a real grandfather type. And they _were_ related, after all.

"Then I must be Barristan," her sort-of uncle replied, inclining his head in a formal manner, though still smiling warmly.

Dany wound her arm through his and dimpled up at him. "How are you? Are you having a good time? I confess, I'm...I'm somewhat at sea here." She gave a nervous laugh as they started to stroll down the lane.

Barristan chuckled. "It's been about the same as any party the Tyrell ladies throw. This sort of business isn't exactly my natural habitat; I'm no party animal..."

Dany laughed.

"Not," continued Barristan, "that I harbor any strong dislike for socializing in a party atmosphere, either. But Olenna Tyrell and young Margaery have a penchant for very large guest lists, and this is about as packed as its ever been."

"Where _is _the hostess? Margaery, I mean," asked Dany, eyes resuming their search for the girl she'd met yesterday. Dany needed to move purposefully, not just wander aimlessly on the outskirts of this party. It seemed logical to find everyone she knew at this thing- even, and especially if, that sum total only amounted to _two _so far. At least if she found the hostess, she might ask to be introduced to some others.

Of course, Barristan might be able to perform some introductions, as well.

"Oh, somewhere in the depths of all of that. Now, who shall we introduce you to?"

No sooner where the words out of Barristan's mouth than he lurched slightly forward as someone jostled his shoulder from behind, and the someone uttered an apology in a deep tone of voice. Dany looked up to see a tall, barrel-chested man with a short, dark beard standing behind Mr. Selmy.

Barristan directed a curt nod of acknowledgment at the man.

"Jorah."

The stranger, apparently called Jorah, returned the nod in much the same style. His eyes, though, were on Dany.

"Barristan."

Jorah showed no inclination to keep on walking, but instead continued to stand near them.

This being the case, Barristan set about making introductions.

"Jorah, this is my, er...my niece, Daenerys Targaryen. Daenerys, this is Jorah Mormont."

"Ah," said Dany, offering a polite smile to the man, as well as her hand to shake. Nnice to meet you." She trained her smile back on Barristan as she continued to speak to the man called Jorah. "Do you work with Barristan?'

Barristan cleared his throat. "No, he doesn't. Jorah works at Golden and Sons, whose offices are one floor down from mine."

"Nothing so interesting or...fundamentally vital as the law, Miss Targaryen," said Jorah, saying the name like he was trying out the sound of it, the feel of it rolling off his tongue. He gave her a half smile. It softened his face, though just a little, and did not add an expression of joy to it. He had a heavy jaw, and a somber countenance. Somber, yes, and somewhat careworn. But it was a kind smile, and Dany liked it. "I am an insurance agent."

"I'm sure that's full of its own kind of adventures," stated Dany, though she'd never given the job any thought before.

Jorah Mormont smiled tersely and raised both eyebrows at her in ironic expression.

She noticed a server close by with a tray full of drinks, and tried to signal to her. The young woman, however, did not see her. Jorah craned his neck backward, turned his head, and managed to catch this server's eyes, and gestured elegantly for her to bring the tray over. She was serving Long Island iced teas and margaritas. Dany took one of the latter, Jorah, one of the former, and Barristan declined a drink.

In response to Dany's question, Jorah said, as the server strolled off, "As you say, Miss Targaryen. I like my job well enough. I've been doing it for about five years now." As he uttered this last sentence, shutters seemed to come down over his clear gaze for a moment, and somehow, Dany's intuition seemed to be telling her that there had been something about those five years that had marked a disappointing change in his life.

She gave at first a gentle smile and then let it turn playful. "I hope not for five years nonstop," she joked, leaning in to him in a comradely fashion and tapping his arm, "with no break for things like this party until tonight."

"Well..." he drawled, seeming as though he did not quite know what to make of her and her teasing. His eyes held hers uncertainly. "I cannot claim such a work ethic as that, no, but nor can I claim that I get out much."

Barristan all but snorted, but partially concealed the noise with a cough. Dany gave him a quizzical look, but the man turned his gaze elsewhere.

Jorah's eyes darted toward Barristan, too, then quickly back to Dany; or rather, her decolletage. It seemed that whatever he'd decided to make of her, he liked it, Dany realized, feeling the heat come into her cheeks. Good thing she'd never been a blusher. But why should she blush in any case? It was hardly the first time she'd been eyed like that by a man.

Jorah then attempted a flirty line by remarking,

"I definitely think I picked the right night to go to a party, though."

He was a charming older fellow, if not at all handsome and completely devoid of sex appeal. He seemed to have the aura of a rather stalwart person, as well, and almost before Daenerys Targaryen knew what she was doing, she was asking this Jorah Mormont, "Would you like to ask me to dance?"

Both of Jorah's eyebrows rose slightly in surprise. He blinked at her, but recovered fairly quickly, inclining his head respectfully as a pleased smile edged the corners of his mouth upward.

"If milady would like to dance, then I would like nothing better."

"Good answer," Dany replied, laughing and taking his arm, as Barristan looked on with an unreadable expression.

They deposited their drinks on a table they passed as they walked to the dance floor- a broad expanse of cement bordered on one side by a trio of cabanas and on another by a wooden fence that marked the edge of the property. Once they reached this spacious patio, Jorah placed his hands delicately on her waist and she placed her on his broad shoulders as they began to sway to the smooth jazz music. Jorah's hands were so large that they nearly encircled her waist, and his demeanor was a little awkward at first, as though he hadn't danced with a woman in a long time. He didn't miss a step, and his movements were smooth and graceful for the big man that he was, but there seemed to be tension in his limbs, and he was completely silent for the first minute they danced.

For her part, Dany hadn't danced with a man in many years. The last time had to have been at Illyrio's house, at one of his parties, before she knew Drogo. She smiled at the thought of Illyrio. As time had passed, she'd realized that the man who had opened his home to herself and her late brother in Henderson, Nevada wasn't the wholly trustworthy soul working on pure faith and compassion that she'd believed him to be when she was a teenager. However, she still owed him a lot- for teaching her how to dance and much more. Whenever he held his parties- sometimes raucous and sometimes elegant, always filled with colorful characters and an abundance of good music and excellent food- she felt that she needed the frivolity and the chance to be carefree.

"How long have you been here, Daenerys? Are you settling in well?" Jorah's voice jolted her out of her contemplations.

He knew who she was. The talk had been making its rounds.

"How long have I been here? At this party?" She smiled knowingly up into his honest, plain face. His beard was coarse and curly, black and neat, and cropped relatively short, but still consisting of more hair than he had atop his head. He was about forty, she supposed, with intelligent eyes the darkest shade of green she'd ever seen, and a swarthy complexion.

His lips twitched in amusement.

"In the Southland. Yes, I know that you are new to the area, but...please don't let that make you uneasy." His features were sedate, but there was a gleam in his eye, at once sharp and friendly. "If people have been talking, it's been all good things."

"Very well. I'll _choose_ to believe that." Dany smirked at him. "Even though I suspect some people might not be so happy that I moved here two weeks ago and am settling in fine," she said, answering his question. He must know which ones she was talking about. He was here, at Margaery's party. Margaery who was dating a Baratheon. "You are a charming liar, sir."

He wasn't enough of a phony to argue with her, for which she was grateful, though he briefly looked flustered, and shifted his gaze to the side.

"Do you live in Pasadena?" she asked him.

He looked back to her, seemingly having recovered from his embarrassment.

"I do."

She saw Margaery off in the background by the entrance to the pool area, talking to a striking but somber looking redheaded young woman. Daenerys turned away and back to Jorah, not wanting to attract their hostess's attention just yet.

"Do you like it?"

Jorah gave a noncommittal shrug. "Can't complain," he said gruffly. He removed one hand from her waist briefly to tug at the collar of his blazer. "It's been a hot day for April, don't you think?"

Dany shook her head in disagreement. "I tolerate heat really well. But it ought

to cool down soon. Look, the sun's starting to set."

It was, and as if on cue, some clear Christmas lights that had been strung from tree to tree around the yard came on, as well as some standing outdoor lamps off in the near distance by the pool.

"Did you make that happen?" Jorah joked.

"Of course. I am full of magic," Dany teased back. Returning to the subject of him, though, she asked, "And have you always lived there?"

"No, I, I come from Oregon," said Jorah. "A place legitimately called Sweet Home, in Oregon. That's where I was born and raised."

Dany had never been to Oregon and knew nothing about it, other than that Portland was supposedly "quirky", so for all she knew, his whole vibe fit in there, in Sweet Home, well. Jorah definitely had the whole 'casual' part of California casual down, but there was something in him that Dany didn't associate with SoCal, at least not the one she'd always imagined in her head. Tonight, he did stand out a bit amongst the other company- he was less slick and effortlessly chic. The khaki pants he was wearing were a bit rumpled, his forest green button down shirt could be seen to be slightly faded this close up, and his dull brown jacket was a rather old-fashioned style. She was going to ask him more about his life in this place called Sweet Home when the song ended, and both Jorah and Dany ceased their movements. He kept one hand resting just above her hip. She would have gladly danced another with him, but at just that moment, there was an interruption.

"Daenerys!" A musical voice was calling loudly for her, and she turned in the general direction of it to find Margaery Tyrell hurrying toward her. Jorah's hand fell away. Dany looked up at him, and they exchanged a smile, his subtle and wry, and hers an amused response to his. It was plain that Jorah, despite having been somehow invited here today, didn't have a lot of patience for a personality like Margaery's.

"You'll excuse me?" he asked, though it appeared less a question when he stepped back, putting a couple feet of distance between them, and looking like he wanted to back up even more.

"If I must, and I see that I do," said Dany lowly, almost in a whisper as she walked toward him and leaned forward, grinning conspiratorially and squeezing his arm.

"I think, actually, that I'll just call it an evening and head on home." Jorah was still wearing that small, dry smile. "I somehow got invited to this thing," he said, suprising Dany by speaking aloud her thoughts about him, "stayed for a couple hours, and that's enough for me. I'm very happy I decided to drop by, though. I hope to see you again."

"Preferably sooner rather than later," Dany responded, giving a little wave. "See you, Jorah."

"Daenerys," he said, looking deeply into her eyes, and giving a bob of his head before rotating neatly on a heel and walking off.

Dany greeted Margaery Tyrell with all the enthusiasm of someone meeting a lifelong friend, and Margaery's attitude was similarly warm and welcoming.

"I hope you're having an excellent time!" Margaery declared, beaming.

"You've definitely put together quite a party," remarked Daenerys. "Congratulations. I'm very glad to be here."

"Thank you so much," Margaery gushed, her lively brown eyes skittering around the scene before her as her lips curved into a smile of pride at what she surveyed. "I put a lot of work into today, so it means a lot to hear you say so. Of course, my grandmother certainly had _a ton _to do with the planning, as well. She is such a social butterfly." She giggled.

Dany couldn't help but chuckle, too. She'd had Barristan apprise her of everything he knew about the Tyrells, and that included some facts about the matriarch of the clan, Olenna Tyrell. She'd learned that the old woman was in her eighties, but her mental faculties were as sharp as a tack, and her tongue, as well. She had acted in a few relatively well-received films as a young woman, had several high profile affairs, and had eventually married a real estate magnate who had been a trust fund baby, and had a son with him, Mace Tyrell. Mace was now a very successful movie producer, and his children up-and-comers in their respective fields: Loras, his son, as a model, and Margaery, his daughter as a popular jewelry designer. All in all, the Tyrells had heaps of money and lots of valuable connections.

Margaery then fulfilled the role that Dany had hoped she would even before first arriving at the party, and they began to circulate so Daenerys could be introduced to some of the other guests. Margaery's grandmother, was not one of them, however, as the little old lady was always surrounded by a swarm of admirers, and her granddaughter suggested that they not just intrude. This was a little disappointing,as Daenerys was intrigued to meet the woman she'd just heard from Margaery was affectionately known as the Queen of Thorns.

Olenna Tyrell's granddaughter soon left Dany to her own devices, having deposited her within a circle Margaery's "good friends". There were a few famous actors and musicians included within this circle, but Dany had never been one to fawn over showbiz types. The company wasn't as interesting as she might have hoped for, but this was progress, at least. She was learning how to mingle again, and might well be opening up some networking opportunities that would prove valuable.

She had just walked away to go scope out the table of appetizers laid under one of the cabanas when suddenly Margaery's voice was heard, amplified by a microphone, and coming from the direction of a little white gazebo that stood in the middle of the lawn.

"Would everyone please gather 'round!"

The guests all obeyed, shuffling in en masse around the gazebo, Dany , as well. Where she ended up standing, she noticed, there was a fire pit just off to the side of her. Three young women, cousins of Margaery's who Dany had spoken to briefly and whose names had escaped her, were walking toward it, giggling. One of them was holding a utility lighter. Some members of the crowd acted like they knew what was going on, while still others looked as nonplussed as Dany felt.

Margaery announced, "Let's get the fire started!"

Although that was obviously the job of one or all of the three cousins (possibly 'all' because they were all giggling over the utility lighter like they were two nervous to click it- even though they were in their late teens or early twenties)- a stooped, slight old man with gray hair and a gray complexion, someone Dany thought she remembered seeing around Olenna earlier, looked straight at her and said in loud, raspy voice,

"Don't let the pyro start it!"

Dany managed a wobbly smile, confused. What on earth did he mean by that? She didn't linger long on the question, however. After a moment, she was sure she knew what his remark had been about. The poor, ignorant old man probably didn't know or had forgotten in his senility the true definition of that word and was under the mistaken impression that it meant 'hot'. That must be it. She w_as _looking smokin' this evening. He probably meant she'd lend to much heat to the fire and make the whole property go up. He was evidently one of those older gentleman that had to let everyone know he hadn't lost his eye for the ladies.

The guests started passing around a notepad, from which they each ripped off a slip of paper. Then, a pack of pens started making the rounds. Dany watched in mystification, before her attention was diverted to the fire that had suddenly flared to life.

"This is something I like to do from time to time at my parties," Margaery was saying from the gazebo. "A notepad and a couple pens are currently being passed around, for a little activity I'm fond of doing that's all about wishes and dreams. After all, why should the only wishes we make all year be made on our birthdays when we blow out the candles?" Their hostess laughed, so melodically it was veered toward pretty damn cheesy. Just like the content of her speech. "If you dream it, you can do it. I believe in the power of positive thinking. And so we use this bit of symbolism. Write down one of your dreams, and drop it in the fire. As the flames engulf these scraps of paper, let our desires become enflamed, as well."

A few men in the audience hollered and wolf-whistled at this. Margaery giggled and pretended to look modest.

Dany was skeptical.

_Burn your dreams?_

It sounded counterintuitive, all wrong, but then she remembered the little urn she had held in her hands. Far too small for such a big, powerful man. She'd held it in her hands, and then scattered one of her burnt dreams to the wind above a blood red canyon...

She shook herself out of her dark reverie and dutifully scribbled her wish on a scrap of paper.

**Power**, was what she wrote, deciding to keep it simple. She though about writing **business success**, but why not expand upon that premise a bit? Why not, while she was going through this juvenile routine?

She delivered it to the fire, and turned to walk back up the grass. In the process, however, she somehow managed to turn her ankle. Her feet slid involuntarily along the grass, failing to gain purchase so that she could recover, and then suddenly went out from under her.

In a flash, someone had their arm around her. For a fleeting moment, she had the strange wish that it was Jorah Mormont helping her to stand, them she remembered that he had already left.

The man who had come to her rescue was a very pretty young man. He looked familiar, and presently Dany recalled Margaery pointing him out across the lawn as being her brother, Loras Tyrell. He was probably, objectively, one of the best looking guys she had ever seen, but he wasn't her type. His features were good and regular, but too delicate, his sandy hair had too much product in it, and he seemed overall too high maintenance, although certainly nothing unusual for California.

"Thank you," she told him, grasping his arm as she steadied herself.

"That's alright. Are you?" He gave her a soft smile of concern.

"Nothing harmed but my ego!" she joked. After she released her hold on him, she noticed that he was moving over to where the little notepad and a few pens lay on the ground. He must have dropped them to help her.

Loras chuckled.

"Daenerys, right? I thought it was so cool when I heard that my sister ran into you yesterday and invited you to the party. Are you having a good time?"

"The best." It was a lie, but it wasn't like she was having an awful time, either. Even though she'd slightly downplayed the injury she'd done herself. Her ankle was feeling somewhat sore and vulnerable.

"Good," said Loras, smiling charmingly. He bent down and picked up the pad and pens. "I heard you've been mentioning that you might open up a clothing store in L.A. That's so awesome. I'd really like to hear more about that sometime. But for now, I'd better get this stuff put away."

Dany regarded him curiously, but he had turned away and didn't notice. He wasn't as smooth an operator as he likely believed himself to be, thought Dany with an inner giggle. Very possibly, he'd only rushed to her aid because he wanted to introduce himself and establish a connection that could help his career as a model. His whole dialogue seemed to end a little too abruptly, and with too flimsy of an excuse. Surely there wasn't a great, big rush to get some pens and a notepad back to his sister. It was pretty evident to her that he wanted to make a short and sweet impression and then get on outta there.

There was another young man standing a moderate distance from them and from the huddle in general. He was as handsome as Loras, and also well-dressed , but his black hair had been cut into a quite short, no-fuss style. Still, he had an unmistakable..._jaunty_ air about him, and she watched him and Loras lock eyes, and engage in some kind of nonverbal communication, the dark-haired wagging his head to the side, raising his eyebrows, Loras bobbing his in the opposite direction, smiling and mouthing something. The dark-haired young man blew him a kiss and Dany was pretty sure she understood their relationship.

Her eyes fell again on the notepad and pens in Loras's hand, and she was speaking before she knew it.

"Wait- can I have another piece of paper and a pen?"

Loras Tyrell turned to her in surprise, but gave the requested items over with a small grin.

"No rule saying you can only have one wish."

This time she wrote on the slip of paper, **love**, then moved swiftly forward and dropped it into the fire. She didn't trip going back this time, but she found herself retroactively puzzled by her actions. She didn't understand the impulse. If she'd given even a second more thought to her second wish, she would have written down **home**, although she was already here. She didn't, after all, _feel_, quite at home yet. Why write down **love**, when she wasn't...she was nowhere near ready for anything like that again. She still mourned Drogo. _Of course_, she justified it to herself, _it's not like all love is romantic. Part of feeling at home is being surrounded by a loving support system_. _That can be my family- what's left of it- and my friends and my employees_.

Dany stayed only about twenty minutes longer at the party; by that point, it was breaking up and it seemed acceptable to go. She went and informed Barristan of her intention to leave. He asked her if she would be okay with him driving her home, instead of calling for a limo like the one he'd so generously ordered to bring her to the party, and she agreed. As Barristan escorted her across the grass on the way out, a firm hand on her shoulder and around her waist so she didn't trip and fall with her slightly vulnerable ankle, he asked her with a hint of a sardonic smile, "So...before you parted from Jorah tonight...did he give you anything? Did he...slip you the keys to his car, perhaps? Promise to lasso the moon for you?" He was close behind her on the sidewalk as they walked down to where his car was parked, and she could feel his deep voice, his wry amusement, rumbling in his chest.

"What?" she asked, turning to him in bewilderment. "Of course not. Why would you ask me that?"

Barristan's smile stretched tighter as they reached his vehicle. "Well, Jorah's always been fond of telling people how his second wife took him for everything he had. Though by all accounts- even his own, whether he realizes it or not..." he opened the passenger side door for her and handed her in "...he gave it to her willingly enough." He shut the door, then came around to the driver's side and got in. He buckled his seatbelt and folded his arms across his chest as he leaned back comfortably against the seat. "He's a sucker for a pretty face. I thought it might happen again," he said in a joking voice to Dany.

Dany rubbed her ankle and regarded Barristan with curiosity as he started the car and they slowly started to move and pull into the street, into the crush of other vehicles that were carefully attempting to maneuver around.

"His second wife? Was she a- was she a gold digger? I didn't get the impression that Jorah was rich. Did he used to be?"

"Hardly," Barristan muttered. "I would have said that was part of the problem, but truth be told, I think that no matter how much money Jorah Mormont had had, he still would've overspent egregiously on her. He tried to show her as lavish a life as he could to keep her interested. In the end, of course, it didn't work, a result anyone could've seen coming a mile away. Jorah used to be a middling executive at a place called Bear Island Foundry."

Dany was silent as she chewed this all over. She decided she felt quite sorry for this aging, bearlike man, overall. He'd been foolish, but it had all been for love. How many people, in this day and age, were willing to go to any length for love? Most were all out for themselves.

"This was back when he lived in Sweet Home, and then there was some kind of...unpleasantness. Imprudence. I don't know exactly how things went, and I don't wish to tell tales, but he didn't leave under the best of terms. He was terminated, and some nasty accusations got thrown around. I know they felt he betrayed the company. Supposedly talk around town was enough that he was basically driven out of the place he'd lived his whole life." Barristan coughed. He'd been talking with an increased level of energy as he went on, almost as if he was getting a charge out of telling this tale, but then he suddenly seemed to feel as if he'd gotten carried away. "Like I said," he went on, more calmly, "I don't know the whole story. I've never spoken to him about it. It probably isn't my place to be going on like this."

Dany had indeed been surprised by his going on about Jorah like that. Barristan didn't seem like one for gossip. For the couple of weeks she'd known him, he'd always chosen his words carefully when speaking about others, and didn't seem quick to criticize. Except in the case of the Lannisters, which Dany fully endorsed. She couldn't believe that Jaime Lannister was still out there, running around with impunity, after he'd been responsible for her father's death- and by extension, her mother's. At least that Robert Baratheon, that slimeball who'd staged a coup of her father's company and flat-out murdered her oldest brother, Rhaegar, was dead, but that hadn't been the result of the execution he so richly deserved. That whole family was loathsome, and nauseated her. There were many in it who'd had a hand in bringing down her family. For a few minutes, she'd actually considered spurning Margaery's invite today, given that the girl was involved with a Baratheon. A Baratheon who was no less than the Usurper's own son. However, she'd decided it wasn't a strong enough connection to drive her away from an event that potentially held so many benefits for her. Besides, Joffrey was only in his mid-20's. He'd been an infant when everything went down. How could she blame the son for the sins of the father? Plus, Barristan had mentioned he was pretty sure no Baratheons or Lannisters would come to this party. He'd been right, thankfully.

Still, Dany needed to get her battle face on. She was bound to run into some of these people, eventually. She didn't fear them, but she wanted them to fear her, and she needed to conceive of the best way to make sure that happened.

It was time she got started on her career, and on her new identity. Moving was hard work, yes, but she'd had plenty of time to rest. And while she'd rested, she'd been dreaming of what she wanted to achieve here. Now she'd rested for long enough. It was about time to have a sitdown with Barristan and talk to him about the store she intended to open. She was the master of her own fortune now, at last, but she knew he still had all kinds of useful advice for her. She didn't really know much about becoming an entrepreneur, but she knew she wished to retain Barristan as her lawyer. And she'd have Irri or Jhiqui call, too, in the morning, and arrange a meeting with Margaery, to speak about possibly selling some of the acclaimed jewelry designer's pieces in her boutique.

_From shop worker to shop owner..._thought Dany, pleased. _And that's only the beginning...The time will come when I'll have my father's company back, as well._

She'd gone through so many changed in the last year- falling in love, and finally finding respect in a household, for once, and gaining independence from Viserys. Then she'd faced an even greater division from her brother when he'd died, gone on to lose Drogo, too, and miscarried their baby...all those ups and downs could have broken her, but she'd let them fire her up instead. And yet, she still didn't feel quite different enough. She didn't feel quite as empowered as she could be. That was unacceptable.

She starting running her fingers through her hair- an old habit of hers when she was feeling thoughtful. She'd crimped it for tonight, into shimmering, rolling waves of liquid silver...feet of it. Her hair was down to her ass. She hadn't cut it in almost ten years.

"I need a haircut."

Barristan looked dubious, then just smiled gently. He stopped at a red light. They were out of Margaery and Olenna Tyrell's neighborhood and were in a more commercial area of Pasadena.

"Your long hair is very lovely, Daenerys." He spoke in a slow, lazy voice, knitted his fingers together and cracked his knuckles. It appeared that he was quite glad to be done with the party. "But I get it. From what I understand, women like to do something to their hair when there's been some kind of big change in their lives. I'm sure your new 'do' will look terrific."

She was still fingering the ends of her hair. She'd go tomorrow, first thing in the morning. As for tonight, well, all things considered, tonight was a good first step in her long-term plan to win back the life that should have been hers.

_To be continued_


End file.
